


Trust Fall

by papesdontsellthemselves



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternative Universe - FBI, Bucky Barnes is a Good Boyfriend, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, FBI Agent Steve Rogers, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Men Crying, Protective Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:15:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23328373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papesdontsellthemselves/pseuds/papesdontsellthemselves
Summary: Killing isn't good for the psyche.  Even when it's in the job description.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 2
Kudos: 52





	Trust Fall

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Steve is going through a moral dilemma in this fic. I'm not trying to make a political statement, nor do I agree or disagree with the conclusions in this fic. I'm just trying to get into his mindset given the situation he's in.  
>  **Warning:** terrorism mention, it's nothing graphic, it's just there.

Steve remembers reading once in a _Time_ article that: “Evil isn’t easy”. The search had been on a whim. A heat of the moment, one in the morning google search after his first day out in the field. Really out in the field. As in, the first day as a member of the Joint Terrorism Task Force where he was trusted to shadow a case. 

Details of that mission were unimportant now that four years had passed, but he’ll never forget how it ended. The feeling of triumph once they had busted the terrorist cell and the almost giddy satisfaction of knowing that they'd _won_ when he pulled the trigger on those men. But man never forgets his first kill.

Sure, at the moment, it had felt good. That particular cell had been a nasty one. Lots of innocent civilians died at their hands. But they were still humans with lives and heartbeats and neurons firing and really, he shouldn’t have tried to humanize what were ultimately murderers to the worst degree, but he couldn’t help but do so. It was innate and the notion was clear. Steve had killed them. He had taken lives that day.

So, that night, after returning home to his boyfriend (now husband), Bucky, and smiling his way through a hasty dinner, then excusing himself halfway through _Up_ to throw up said dinner in their hall bathroom, he’d googled it. “What happens in your brain when you kill someone?”

It’s just the way Steve functions. If he can understand his thought processes- what’s happening in his brain when he’s performing an action, the ultimate _why_ \- then he can stomach whatever it is that’s plaguing him. He lives by that: logic. It makes sense. 

Bucky’s always said that surprises him. Apparently, recklessness shadows logic and Bucky likes to remind him that he’s, “The most reckless person I know, Christ”. When Bucky had told him that, Steve had been a little offended, but ultimately it didn’t matter. As long as he knows when to put on the serious front, he’s fine.

Beyond that, Steve seems to have a knack for surprising Bucky. Namely, when Bucky found out his actual job was with the FBI, specifically one of the most secretive and risky branches. JTTF was no organization to be fucked with. Yeah, for about 24 hours, Steve was certain Bucky was going to break up with him for keeping such a huge thing from him. But after the confusion and fear had subsided, they were okay. Thankfully, Bucky respected his need for privacy in most work related matters. They were okay.

Anyway, Steve remembers seeing the first line of that goddamn _Time_ article, “Evil isn’t easy”, and rethinking all of his life choices. All he’d wanted were the straightforward facts on what happened in his mind when he pulled those triggers and what he got was an existential crisis that hasn’t quite ended, because what he was doing as a Special Agent wasn’t evil, right? No, they were the ones tasked with the precarious job of stopping evil, so they couldn’t be the evil ones. But they were still killing, weren’t they? And that was evil. 

Halfway through the article, which chalked up to be mostly about serial killers and psychopaths and nothing that could remotely justify Steve’s own actions, he’d clicked out and cleared his history, then chucked his phone across the room and nestled into Bucky’s side. Bucky just grumbled a bit and pulled him closer in his sleep. In the moment, that had been enough to rest Steve’s mind, even a fraction. But now, as Steve points his gun between the eyes of the leader to a terrorist cell that had nearly blown up Union Station and pulls the trigger, feeling the way his heart beats too fast, but his hands remain steady, the familiar pit of guilt rises in him. 

XXX

The rest of the day passes methodically. Paperwork, debriefing, more paperwork, coffee break, quick shower in the agency’s locker room, even more paperwork.

Finally, the case is done. Or at least, Steve is done with it. It still has to go through some final wraps, but that’s for his superiors to worry about.

On the ride home, some of the feeling that had previously left Steve’s body, leaving him vacant and robotic, begins to return. By the time he pulls into his parking space across from Bucky and his’ brownstone, he’s shaking. The reaction is purely physical, though. He still feels numb. No pits in his stomach or lumps in his throat or jaws clenching to keep from crying. 

His mind is white noise, but his body is _on fire_. His palm and pointer finger tingle where the gun had been nestled, the pressure from pulling the trigger seemingly still there. His legs feel restless and he flexes the muscles in his thighs, trying to relieve some sort of instinct to _fucking run and never stop._ He clenches the steering wheel hard enough to turn his knuckles white, allows himself thirty seconds to breathe, then turns off the engine. One more deep breath later, he’s crossing the street and pulling out his house key to let himself in. 

Bucky is in the kitchen when he enters, hovering over the stove and wearing one of the aprons Steve’s Ma had gifted them a couple Christmases ago. He looks up when Steve perches himself at the kitchen counter and smiles, gesturing to one of the pots on the stove.

“Hey, you hungry? I’m making some split pea soup. There’s little hotdogs in the fridge that we can put in if you’re feeling frisky.”

Steve had managed to calm himself down to the point of feigning normalcy, but his chest is still vibrating and the thought of eating food makes his stomach churn. 

He must pause a second too long to answer Bucky, because he looks over again, frowning, “Hey...you okay?”

Steve sighs. He can’t share details of his work, but after their argument when Bucky had found out about the whole FBI thing, he’d promise to at least be as honest as he could. Besides, as much as Steve’s job told him not to trust anyone, all good relationships are built on trust and Bucky deserves the dignity of Steve’s.

“No,” He says. 

Bucky’s frown deepens and he gives the soup one more stir before turning off the stove and moving the pot off the burner.

“Rough day?” He asks. His tone is conversational, with just the right amount of sympathy. Steve appreciates it. He knows Bucky worked long and hard on how to talk to Steve so he would open up to him.

“Yeah,” Steve says, finally feeling some of the emotions that had previously been sidelined returning. He takes a shaky breath, feeling a little hot around the eyes all of a sudden, “Awful.”

Bucky leans over the other side of the counter, reaching out a hand to cover Steve’s, “Can you talk about it?”

And can he? Steve has had bad days before, hell the number of times he’s wordlessly curled himself into Bucky’s chest and cried while his partner held him is almost embarrassing. And each time, Bucky asks if he can talk about it and each time he refuses. But it hurts. God, it hurts so bad and sure, Steve has talked about this shit to his field partner, Natasha, before, because _she gets it_ , but right now all Steve wants to do is tell Bucky. Get it out to a third party who isn’t involved in this messy shit. Hear that it’s okay. Or hear that it’s not and just have the truth already.

And yeah, he does trust Bucky. No, he’s not going to tell him details, he’s not disloyal to the Bureau, but he trusts Bucky enough to tell him this. He needs to tell him, he needs to-

“Did you know that I’ve killed people?” He asks. 

Bucky squeezes his hand and takes a measured breath.

“Never for sure,” He says, honestly, “But I’ve figured that it may come with your job.”

And now Steve feels so small and vulnerable and he drops Bucky’s hand and in a moment of pure longing- for comfort or just for Bucky, he doesn’t know. Maybe they’re the same thing- he reaches up and tugs at the front of Bucky’s shirt. Bucky gets it right away. They’ve gotten to the point where reading each other is second nature, as familiar in their minds as the english language.

He crosses around the countertop and pulls Steve into his arms, rubbing a soothing hand up and down his back as he cries. It feels good to cry knowing Bucky knows what he’s comforting him for. The fact that he’s willing to hold Steve this close, despite knowing what he’s done- what he’s had to do- speaks volumes.

“I hate doing it,” Steve says, voice thick and muffled by tears and Bucky’s shoulder, “I’ve had to do it so many fucking times and I hate it and I try to justify it, but I never can in the end because I can still see them- every fucking one of them- in my mind.”

Bucky hums, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, “Let’s go to the couch.”

Steve nods, allowing himself to be guided to the couch in the living room. He cries for a few more minutes, Bucky holding him close, until eventually the breakdown tapers off. 

“I can’t imagine what you have to do, Steve, or how you must feel,” Bucky says, “And I can’t provide reasoning behind it any more than you can, because really, there shouldn’t be reason in this world for you to be in that position in the first place. But what you do, you do because it’s your job. You’re keeping a huge fucking number of people safe. Maybe there’s no justification for this shit on either side, but that’s just the fucked up way of this fucked up world. You do what you have to in the moment to keep people safe in the long run.”

“I’m not a bad person?” Steve asks, still working to take measured breaths.

And whether Bucky thinks so or not, he says, “No,” firmly.

And gradually, the rest of the tension in Steve’s gut lets up. He’s not okay, not really. But now that the weight has been pressing down on his chest for so many years is not a secret he has to keep from the person he loves the most, he can breathe a little steadier.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, chiefs!


End file.
